Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

Made a shining locus, a hole | where nothing was | Attracts meanings to it, as fish are said to be | drawn to a lamp | Cancel your next moment, implement new plans | A tent in a forest | and a man made of cakes, too sweet, too dangerous | you hear him shuffling outside, and there are shadows of leaves | cast on the canvas | an overwhelming | scent of sugar and cream | who wrote him, originally? | A party of strangers, gathered in a hotel | a blizzard traps them for days | Imbued with a slanted spirit, the recourse to explanations is too easy, the fire too private, as | only your children burn that night | Hovering and shimmering, like a dragonfly | you’re not sure will disappear | into the woods or across the river | There is no vanishing at all, she tells you | only the apportioning of different locations | you add in the loss, but I don’t listen | Strength and control come towards the end, and then we are once again, explicitly | engaged in the honour of battle | The right conclusion beckons | and the race for the biggest coffin | We depart towards dusk | and for our adventures | remain | only a beautiful error | and our certain fate | to rise alone in another new weather


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2014)

Tumbled in, like Alice | It could be opals | from Western Australia | it could be dumplings | in a viscous gravy with skin | also there will be flies | Very highly coloured, but infinitely dissatisfying, so we are bound | to separate | there being more, always more, including up | Folded, like a paper crane, the silhouettes of trees | still in the paper | cut the full moon | with its scent of radish and soy, Tsuki-sama | Progression, apparently, definitely | And recourse | to the slopes and scars and the ragged | Orion of the freckles on your back | and in the aureole | of an illusion | some way down | to the pale hunter | the calm, obtuse, comforting — the classical | Crushed, not by the jaws | of junkyard compactors | or by the vacuous | momentum of the years | but by a thought | As light as that! — a few | vagrant atoms | and the mass | of what calls to them | what | calls to them? | And formally, just because | it was foretold by this reading | with the Hermit | the Wheel and the | King of Cups | there are more of those firefly thoughts | and a voice | from outside | making you | look up

We could plot our end by the phases of the moon | throw in our lot | with the inebriating | roll of the tides | gallons of lucid wanting | shape | falling and spreading and rising | it only makes | a difference | By the sea, because it is | traditional, because | there’s a certain charm | in establishing an attitude | to the neutral punch | and counter-punch | of waves and rock | they are not battling | there is no bout | no prize | but there is a measureless hiatus | and then the full moon | drawing in the arrayed | verticals of bamboo | quite still before the dawn | The prey — and it is prey — eludes us | so we pretend | it meant nothing | we put down our guns | pretend | we never carried them | and in any case | that was a long time ago | among the feathers and the moccasins | Safe in despair, we wait, let the days pass | they have no choice, being days | Abruptly, the current of relevance | re-acquires force | still moist | with the water | freshly expiring from the shower’s rose | you lie face | down on the bed | then the perfectly cut | block of darkness interrupts | with hints of lust, and love, and satisfaction | but when, after the dreams, our lives | turn back on | I am not thought through at last | and there is no touch | and no Orion••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2016)

Oasis, implying deserts | Dunes of pale sand stretch away, surrounding us to no escape | If it is the void we must deal with, then the architecture of the void | is what we must use | to build | Sipping bitter coffee from tiny cups | under a pavilion | putting an edge to the sky, the edge ourselves, the sky not requiring | an edge at all | The night, inferred from stars, very cold, very wild | The heat from our fire, as we await | the arrival of the nomads | wakes | across the desert | in another fire | Feel?

And also, the silence has an architecture, a system of building | into and out from | Dwelling, or the hope of dwelling, attends the impulse | dwelling even in devastation, such devastation as inheres | within the casual caress of two mouths | into a kiss, or two eyes | glancing in a new direction | Glaciers, panting | The stars, very cold, very wild | shining | also used for distance | The bitterness | is living | The nomads, although they understand | the nature of shelters | in the oasis | still smile when they arrive | and sleep | we have incubated for dry hours | hatches in the sound of many pouring waters


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2015)

You don’t understand, but I understand | Summer runs into a culvert | We take off our skins of lions, what | skin will we find underneath? | If things were different, maybe it would be | the skin of birds in flight | seen from above, through an airliner window? | In any case, the skins | never run out | always another below this one, the skin | of wild deer | gazing from the woods | over the fence | at tame deer | languidly grazing in the Royal park

I don’t understand, but you | say you understand | Water-levels drop, the rivers dwindle | gaping for melt or rain | Day discharges into night | sluggishly | For a while, we smash the bottles | holding genies prisoner | feel those stately djinn drift away | into the shapes of flocks | of large white birds | migrating across African skies | All the time | we take off skins | below our heels | the skins of lions, and we | peel those off, too | Stripping and stripping | and the rain | doesn’t come | Under the skin | of my eyelids and my lips | will you still find | when the rain comes, and the wild | deer have moved on | the skin of honey, ticking down in | buzzing drops | and beneath that | a skin of maples, a skin of flies?••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2013)

Lies aslant | just fallen | Meaning howls outside it, wanting to win, but this languor | has no victors | Call out into the snow, see how it answers? | Stroke a sleeve, being | glided to rest | breathe a stillness | back to the roots | the source | very young | moves an eye | trembling

Victim, not started yet | not called out | Peaceful, in a drift of gestures | waiting | quietly, blindly | patiently | like unworn clothes | hanging | Dew slips down grasses | moon | still visible | Carnage after, not now | Thrown and landed | just so | Dreams, neither | ended, a glisten | of scales, gills’ deepen | a slow | panting | Rolls, and opens | Fresh | birth, rain coming, also••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2014)

Over and against | the storm, the solitary raindrop | that touches your face | is out of balance but is | what you feel | a sharp cool | point of salience || I am empty | like a ship that has | had its cargo removed | grain or salt | tractors | toys || Float lighter | without purpose | awaiting the grip | of a burden which | never arrives || She wrote that the clouds were like mourners | awaiting the birth of rain || Trailing a squall of gulls | up the slope | the farmer | steers and climbs | the ploughed earth’s | pleats curve and | swirl the field | When the wheat comes | and takes off its dress | the ripening is so | naked…

Holding up the next sign, the new | sign | the one you care for or are | paid for | the horned sign, the crooked | sign | the most pressing, the inevitable, the essential, the necessary | sign | this sign || that sign || How fast it all | seems to happen | these days || Yes, and he was | right | how the current of the | past | takes us and we | push on into it | ceaselessly with our | future wishes… || Night is gliding | over the face of the Earth and the dawn is | breaking | over the face of the Earth | one chasing the other | a dream subsiding | into the grind, the grind | shot through with | threads of Eros, strands of adventure! | on-rushing | to subside in | a new dream | or maybe | an old dream you have | forgotten? || Bonding | all by | choosing some and | losing all | that is the scrape of | fiction and life | the hot | gates | we form, for better or for worse | we open our global | mouths and | bite off | some fragment of a | desired locale | the quiet bed, the | orange trees in flower, the | nursery with BingBing and yellow | velvet-skinned | Boulogne || But don’t be | fooled || Like the carcase of | antelope or | deer | In the Graveyard of Ships | the beached hulks | rust and | are lit | by the abrasive | stars as | angle-grinders | take back the wounded parts | towards the shining cave | of another whole••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2013)

Wanting the cups back into shape again | and the salmon-coloured walls with their screens | of sleep and unloving | projected | Our shadows, though | aren’t quite right | some novelty has | crept into them | What is different | about our caresses? | How did that hint of a | river slip into them? | What has changed? | Why do they feel | less intense/more | intense, less | natural, more | desperate?, less | passionate, less | rehearsed? | More | strange? || Focus | once again | has slipped, there is this | shimmer under | the images, an | uncertainty to do with | moments || How did we | reach this point, our bed a | memory of hands reaching up to | feed voracious gulls? || When did this | process begin? || And where are you going | with those trees and their | footsteps of roots and earth so steady, like the tread | of armies or of blinded hearts?

Coda || The calmer times | How the wake settles | after our rowing boat has | surged on a few more | cycles of dipping oars and floating | oars with their | images shattered and | collapsed and | forgotten || Put the walls up again | sip tea | out in the courtyard garden | Hang the south in its | usual place | needing the sky | to behave like a sky, to be called | a sky, to | make its standard | connection with the tops of the | pear trees and the memory | of the sycamore the storm | broke some | years before || ‘H’ after ‘G’, asking | the hours to honour | their order, even to the point of | moving too fast, now, taking too much | now | Wanting the eyes in my heart to stay | open | the paths to lead | back home, to the office, the deli, the theatre… || Or do I? || How does it work out | in the end? | you say | your voice | dropping crumbs of | toast and honey | the edge of your mouth | tingled with silver || How still the weather | seemed that day I | can’t | remember || Building the wreck may | take a lifetime || Call this poem, “rain check”?••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2013)

Heat martyrs | Peach one-piece, pool a patter of vanishings | lush spray | shot to vapour in my indolence, Sir Sun | thou art an… errant… | Time’s indigents, we no longer strut or | tauten to the faintest | zephyr of a caress | but sole-flat pad and flop, grin | with a silvery arthritis | mouth gnawed on gleaming crowns | Knowing many | ways of knowing | still I am a dunce | at summer school | the ta-ra-la-la of tiny | ethereal trumpets | rattle in my ear | fanfares to oblivion | A monster of torpor | accumulated over the years | no thing for chat shows | only for webcams or | lairs in zoos | denizen | of a former era | apologist | for a corrupt | regime | At wit’s end | laze in a stupor | set aside my tools | of Sappho and polygons | ignore the shade | but bake and glaze | almost free | of any need | for liberty | Today, rather a cloud | casting a juvenile shadow | than the light | with its ancient machines | inane and floating | registered only to the art of rain | Not oneself, that’s how it goes | a conversation | like choristers | gossiping before choir | And always too early to say… | As to termini | the young have a lithe wisdom | I kid myself | they’ll carry my long body | as the tribesmen bear | the great serpent into the city | maybe they kid themselves | they’ll be sure | when the time comes | of precisely the right moment | to put me down

Staked out by the metal rays | hung on egos | from trees | ghost-formed by unchecked kudzu | simmering in perfumed oil | plunged to gasp and writhe | in freezing water | only the silvery peaks of the most regal | skyscrapers | escape the tendrils of the climbing weeds | the mental state | grown sclerotic | clogged with damp and rot | from miracles of flowers | chat of gods and antimatter | of black holes and social justice | mushes | slips in sludge | sideways | gloops down | pools in cisterns | drains | tunnels | your entire notion of reality: doze | Oh, Meneer, your musket has crumbled, and your beard | is full of the flash and smatter of wings | and buskin, baby, is long | out of fashion | do you want to start a trend? | Is this your “look”? | In Toytown | explosions occur | almost daily | assassination is a constant threat | no one’s heard from Schneewittchen for years | I heard she ended up in the Valley | and, naturally, she was doing drugs | Connected | but the dead spider doesn’t | feel the fly | convulse and judder in her web | Hordes of kids | out in fast cars | searching for the next sensation | I hear their hunting horns | the breeze | carries across the rooves | of the poorest suburbs | treasure of aspiration for weaker minds | Here the nymphs | text and cuss in a sudden slang | I am | a sunken wreck | upon my back I lie | at the bottom of the pool | rigid and holding out | my arms to embrace | the whorled and rippled sky | through the hazed fathoms | of chlorinated void | and with a sput! and fizzle! | out of the morbid | vines of my brain | once in a while | a flower of ruthless jewel-like red | fires and glories | Did we make a | massive error, all of us | the citizens | so terrified by the squirming lengths | of mercury and black? | We thought the natives were bringing | from green jungle | the snake into our city | but was the danger not ingress? | Instead, were they taking away forever | the terrible serpent | leaving us to a safer future | in calm cafés and pop-up bistros | a secure life | clearly ruled | by Google and frappuccinos?


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2014)

Elegant, but without purpose | In remote caves, hermits | polish their isolation, peg out | their spirits in a speechless sun | to writhe and | truly | be | Pervasive, yet unfelt | ambient | unnoticed | A riddle | no one is asked | intricate | punning | On TVs, murderous bombast | from concerned politicians | softened | into byways | sidings | pallid ferns | seen through frosted glass | Natural, like the growth of horn | nail | Rolls and spins | not yet | altered to arrest | pinched, vicissitudes in winter | Fenced back, but ended in a motel, lost hours | startling | young deer in a green glade | Made a | hollow | by sleeping heads | inane | fronds wave in glacial currents | shed wings | stood | walked and shed | bones | shed | seeds | lay down | slithered, shed | scales | clumped | hunched | grew | slower | emitted spines | disclosed | unsettling perfumes | popped | shrunk | shed thought | shed care | ceased | dreaming

Collecting holes | Secret | momenta | what the rain | needs from the walls | Follow | the contours | Flow round | the obstacles | Tickets | in pockets | discovered | later | journeys’ | dust | Distilling | occult | liquors | Run for a train, drop | your newspaper | Glands | swell | Heads | burst | Contains | disappointment | Roots | curl out, feel | Sleep very deeply, gliding down | like snowflakes | falling to snowflakes | scarecrow of nerves | gossip | Seeks light, claims | space | Mushrooms indifferently across highways | Flowers | in graveyards | Made sense, but only to a few | Rode silently through town at dusk, for some, their last sunlight passing••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2014)

By the time we got there it had already changed | We wanted it to be like it was in the photographs | from the 1950s | Arriviste summer | spring overwhelmed and the green gross | blasé | Given head, it rushed and sprinkled | in its veins, it was its nature | a cathedral drowned in grass, butterflies | adapting to a drier climate | a camouflage of dirt and concrete | Winter gold was how it should have been | not with fruiting persimmons | lovely enough to drive the monks to burn it down | not a replica | Sure, it has its secret, but we feel | it isn’t the secret, anymore | not the proper secret | allure has spilled and leaked away | we don’t really care what it says, and perhaps | it doesn’t care, either | It made me weep | to listen to you on the plane | home | to feel the old pull | stupid and hopeful, as are we all | that should we go back | we would find | the buildings had flipped again, the mood | turned overwhelming, like a first sight of the ocean | that the day | had been carried into itself, once more | and had altered everything | to remain the same

Indifference massed around it | shaped in photographs and flashes | the sluggish yammer of guides and tourists | hiss of bag on slicker, plump | billow of stiffened umbrellas as the rain | (ageless and inscrutable) | gathered the temple into a thunderous shower | a pulsating bag of murk | with enough silver to betray | millions of gods and buddhas | A stick broken off from the main plant | somehow survives a long journey to | split out of its skin | first burgundy buds, then | green of the youngest and most delicate | of mayflies’ wings | Everyone was writing in those days, not because | they were any good at it, but because | they felt the pull towards | the notional audience | but there was | nobody, for the most part | just empty theatres in flatscreen | LCD cities (also | abandoned) | and the cruel | goblins of vanity | slowly scratching away at our spirits | making us more desperate, bitter, hungry in the name | of others and beauty | We made it a temple, but in truth | it was gold leaf and ancient pine | tile and bronze and teak | it trapped voices as it always had, though | dwindling numbers of them | and, oddly, we were either stupid, and stayed on, or | we grew less hopeful | it was a strange | time, given the wealth we had and the luxury | of hours and | resources to burn… | Sometimes, you do still find one | among the longer grass, at the woods’ | edge | near dropped nests | slumped in its own muteness | hurting itself to shine again | as if | nothing had changed, and words | still meant something more than | words do | as if | you could take it entirely apart and discover, at the end | a secret, perfect and intact | the significance | of the skies and rusting | prams and | weeds and tiny bones and scattered feathers at the heart••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2013)